At lunch he scarcely spoke to Naomi and his mother, and he never uttered the name of Mary Conyngham, for something made him cautious: he could not say what it was, save that he felt he oughtn’t to speak of her before the other two. He had to see Mary Conyngham; he had to talk with her, to talk about himself. He couldn’t go on any longer, always shut in, always imprisoned in the impenetrable cell of his own loneliness. It was Mary Conyngham who could help him; he was certain of it.
He left Naomi at the door of the restaurant, telling her that he meant to go for a walk. He would return later to sleep. No, he didn’t feel tired. He thought a walk would do him good.
And then, when he had left her, he walked toward the part of the town where Mary lived, and when he reached her street, he found that he hadn’t the courage even to pass her house, for fear she might see him and wonder why he was walking about out there on the borders of the town. For an hour he walked, round and round the block encircling her house, but never passing it. It wasn’t only that she might think him a fool, but she might be changed and hard. If she had changed as much as he himself had changed, it would only be silly and futile, the whole affair. But he couldn’t go on forever thus walking round and round, because people would think him mad, as mad as his mother and Naomi believed him.
Crossing the street, he looked up, waiting for a wagon to pass, and there on the opposite side stood Mary Conyngham. She did not see him at once, perhaps (he thought) because she had not expected to see him, and so had not recognized him. She was wearing a short skirt, known as a “rainy daisy,” though it was a bright, clear day. She looked pale, he thought, and much older—handsomer, too, than she had once been. All the tomboyish awkwardness had vanished. She was a woman now. For a moment he had a terrible desire to turn and run, to hide himself. It was a ridiculous thought, and it came to nothing, for as the wagon passed she saw him, and, smiling, she crossed the street to meet him. His heart was beating wildly, and the rare color came into his dark cheeks.
“Philip,” she said, “I’ve been wondering where you were.”
It gave him the oddest sensation of intimacy, as if the meeting had been planned, and he had been waiting all this time impatiently.
They shook hands, and Mary said, “I’ve just left your mother.” And Philip blushed again, feeling awkward, and silly, like a boy in his best clothes, who didn’t know what to do with his hands. He was dressed like a workman in an old suit and blue cotton shirt.
Suddenly he plunged. “I came out here on purpose. I wanted to see you.”
“Have you been to the house?”
“No,” he hesitated. “No ... I’ve just been walking round, hoping to run into you.”